Fear and Loathing
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: ... and Being Dragged Around at Sherlock's Every Whim in Las Vegas. John/Lestrade. Written for ImpishTubist.


**Fear and Loathing (and Being Dragged Around at Sherlock's Every Whim) in Las Vegas**

_All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely (__co)__incidental._

_Written for ImpishTubist on the occasion of her attendance at The Amazing Meeting 2011. All of the programmed events and locations described are real, which is kind of fun, though obviously none of the rest of it has any grasp on reality whatsoever._

* * *

They dropped their bags in the lobby of the hotel with a sigh of relief – or, at least, John and Lestrade did. Sherlock wasn't carrying a bag, nor had John even seen him pack one back at Baker Street. They had gently (and then less gently) suggested that even the world's only consulting detective might not fare too well in America without so much as a change of clothing, but Sherlock hadn't appeared interested.

"I'll check us in," said John. "You manage Sherlock."

"Thanks," said Lestrade, and didn't mean it in the slightest.

John made it back a few minutes later with room key cards for everyone – two rooms; they'd decided that, if worst came to worst and Sherlock proved completely intolerable, they'd take a room each and boot him out altogether. He didn't sleep anyway, so he might as well go out on the Strip and… _deduce_ things.

In the elevator, Lestrade squinted at the printed sheets of paper he was carrying. "Says here there's a get-together in the pub at eight."

"Oh, good," said John. "That's the best thing I've heard about this case since Sherlock took it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed a sigh. "_If_ it isn't satisfactory enough to know that you are helping to stop a dangerous international serial forger and murderer…" he said, in a tone that implied he thought that was the only thing they ought to desire in life, "… might I point out that I _have_ brought you to Las Vegas, all expenses paid, and that you have the option of attending a _fascinating_ scientific meeting while you're here."

"Well, it does beat digging through skips in back alleys," Lestrade conceded, and Sherlock made a noise that sounded suspiciously like '_obviously_.'

"Right," said John, when they had dropped off their things – he and Sherlock in one room, Lestrade in the other. "I'm off to have a look 'round. I hear there's a _cinema_ in the hotel."

"I've heard there's _bowling_," offered Lestrade through the open door that connected their suites. "D'you want to go and look for it before the pub?"

"Bowling?" John shook his head. "I'd been told America was a bit over-the-top, but that… yeah, come on, let's go. Sherlock, what about you?"

"Need I remind you that I have a _case_?" asked Sherlock. "I'll be here doing things that _matter_."

"Well, have fun," and the doctor and the detective inspector were off.

* * *

As it turned out, both the cinema and bowling alley were real, and they were situated right alongside bingo rooms, spas, showrooms and so many more things that John and Lestrade hardly dared walk down any more of the corridors to investigate.

"Back when my family used to go on holiday," said John, a little breathless, "Harry and I'd do our nuts if the hotel had a _pool_."

Lestrade chuckled. "Yeah, but this is _America_," and he accompanied the word with a broad, sweeping gesture of one hand.

"Bit different from Essex," John agreed. "Pub?"

"Pub."

It was a fantastic evening. Everyone seemed quite impressed that they had come all the way from the United Kingdom for the meeting (a notion of which neither man disabused the other attendees). They were introduced to person after person – a friendly man with an open face and bushy moustache; a cheerful older gentleman also from England; a fellow about whom, a few minutes later, they recalled nothing but his jaunty bowtie – and they ended up not having to pay for their own drinks all night.

It was well past midnight when they made the weary journey back down the corridor to their rooms, leaning on one another for support and giggling about a story the bowtie-clad man had told (it had been about chemistry, they ought to remember it for Sherlock, but they were already forgetting the details and it just wouldn't be the same). John's key card needed a few swipes to let him in, but when the door swung open, they both stood in shock at the sight.

Sherlock was sprawled completely across one of the two beds, fast asleep. That in itself was a rare enough occasion, but the other bed was _also_ occupied – strewn all over with Sherlock's things, clothing and papers and _was that chemistry glassware_ and, in pride of place upon the pillow, the _skull_.

They gaped at one another.

"Are we going mad?" John asked.

"How many did we _have_?" was Lestrade's answering groan.

"He didn't bring a bag," and John's soft tones were almost imploring. "He _didn't bring a bag_…"

He buried his face in his hands, running his fingers through his hair and leaving it in crazy disarray.

"Come on," said Lestrade. "You can stay over in my room. 's got two beds too."

"Mmf," muttered John. "I s'pose."

* * *

They awoke late the next day – aftereffects of a brilliant pub night – so it was not much of a surprise to find Sherlock long gone from the other room. His things were, if possible, even more spread out than the previous night, and John could have sworn he saw a set of encyclopaedias under a garish purple shirt.

He shook his head. "I don't even want to know."

"Does anybody ever, when he's involved?"

"God, I'm glad he made you come along. One of us would've killed the other if it were just us two."

"Well, you know me. Always willing to stop a nasty murder. Though it wouldn't half be justified…"

"Come on, you're supposed to be the _good_ influence. Breakfast?"

"Yeah, let's."

There was a workshop that morning that actually interested John, about complementary and alternative medicine, and as Sherlock had already paid for their registration to the meeting, he thought he might as well attend. Lestrade, having nothing better to do, came along as well, so they spent two quite pleasant hours immersing themselves in a side of medicine John rarely had the time to give due diligence these days.

He left smiling, and Lestrade said softly, "Huh."

"What?"

"Well, you're a _doctor_."

"Er, yeah. I am. Sorry, what?"

"It's just that – Sherlock never _lets_ anyone else be the brilliant one."

"Hardly brilliant. It's just what I'm trained to do."

"Still."

They didn't go to the afternoon workshops, though they did stand in the corridor next to the sign for one, called 'Problems in Paranormal Investigation,' debating whether or not Sherlock qualified.

"He _is_ a problem."

"Sometimes."

"Clearly, you don't have to live with him. And he's _definitely_ not normal."

"No, definitely not that. And he investigates a _bit_."

"He's investigating right now."

"Or so he's told us. He's probably out there now, counting cards…"

"… bet he can, too…"

"… bet he's a regular old card shark…"

And the ridiculousness of the image – Sherlock, stone-faced, dealing at a Las Vegas poker table – made them both laugh.

"We don't actually know _what_ he's doing, do we?"

"'Course we do. He's 'tracking down a lead.'"

"I suppose that's as much as we ever know where he's concerned. D'you want to go for a walk or something, get out of the hotel? If you're not interested in investigating the paranormal, that is."

"No, no, not interested. Let's go."

* * *

There was a reception that night, with a cash bar. Basically, John thought, it was just like the pub night, only with a lot more people and slightly less rowdiness. They recognized some of their mates from the previous night, including the older English fellow, who gave them a smile and a nod – but by far the most surprising part of the evening was when Sherlock turned up.

He was dressed, as usual, in a perfectly-tailored suit and slim-cut shirt, and looked more like one of the invited guests than an ordinary attendee. Lestrade and John, in jeans like most of the rest of the crowd, edged up to him, trying to look like the three of them belonged together, despite Sherlock's elegant clothing and the disdain on his face.

"Really, I thought you'd done the bar thing yesterday."

"We did," said John. "Normal people sometimes go out more than one night in a row."

"Sometimes, it's not even for a case," added Lestrade.

"Waste of time," Sherlock dismissed. "As long as you're here, can you at least see our target?"

"No, because you haven't told us who it _is_."

"You should be able to deduce it. Go on. Try."

John sighed. "He's always doing this. Er… the chap over there, in the black shirt."

"Why?"

"Because… I don't know, because he's not socializing like everyone else?"

"Weak analysis. And you're wrong. Lestrade?"

"Have I got to?" He gave John a look, _help me_.

John shook his head. "You're on your own."

"Oh, all right… ah… the one in green, over there. By the potted plant."

"Why?"

"He's not looking at what's going on. He's looking around, like he's trying to find something. If he were just waiting for a friend, he'd be by the doors, wouldn't he? So what's his game?"

"_Very_ good. I'm almost impressed, Lestrade."

"Was I right?"

"Actually, yes. For none of the right reasons, but yes."

"Well, that's something, anyway," Lestrade muttered to John.

Sherlock moved off casually in the direction of the man under his surveillance, snagging a handful of peanuts from the bar as he went.

John and Lestrade looked at one another.

"Well done," John offered.

"I _am_ a detective, you know," Lestrade replied. "I'm pretty certain Sherlock forgets that when he's… well, all the time."

"You and me both," was the resigned reply. "Doctor and detective, until Sherlock comes along, and then we're just accessories after the fact."

"Well, at least this time we're accessories at a _very_ nice bar."

The reception ended at nine o'clock, which meant that they made it back to their rooms at a reasonable hour. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, though it appeared that the mess in his and John's room had grown to colossal proportions over the course of the day.

"Where is it all _coming_ from?" he wondered. "I mean, has he got some sort of clown car under the bed?"

Lestrade dropped to his hands and knees and checked. "No," he said, "but he _does_ have – oh, God – I think it's some sort of pickled organ."

"Don't tell me," groaned John. "Don't say another word."

"Staying in my room again tonight, then?"

"Please."

* * *

On Friday, they decided to give the meeting itself a shot, and ended up in a chair-lined banquet hall, listening to opening remarks and scientific discourses. The talks were actually far more interesting than either of them had expected from Sherlock's dry descriptions, and during the coffee break, they found themselves chatting enthusiastically with one of the panellists – an American astronomer with a keen interest in discussing the universe.

John was taken aback to hear Lestrade conversing with ease, talking about a newly-discovered extrasolar planet and the recent space shuttle launch that had concluded the American reach for the stars. He hadn't much to offer to the conversation himself – his knowledge of astronomy was limited to the names of constellations in the night sky – but he quickly realized that the detective inspector was very well-versed indeed. Too soon, people began shuffling back to their seats for the next talk, and Lestrade's new acquaintance departed, highly recommending the afternoon's space panel.

"We'll be there," John assured him, guiding Lestrade back to his seat.

Under cover of the next panel, something about global warming, John whispered, "You never told me you were interested in astronomy."

"Never came up," his friend said with a shrug.

John couldn't help but feel that that was rather a shame. They'd known one another how long? and yet it had taken a transatlantic journey on a madcap case of Sherlock's for him to discover that Lestrade liked the stars.

Sherlock reappeared again at the buffet lunch, dropping by just long enough to say, "Please don't go to our rooms tonight, John, Inspector."

"What?"

"It… would be advisable for you to be elsewhere. At least until eleven o'clock tonight, and the later the better."

"Sherlock, why can't we go to our own rooms?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"Typical," growled Lestrade.

"Lestrade, this is _Las Vegas_. Surely you can find something to keep yourself occupied for a few hours on a Friday night."

Lestrade's facial expression indicated that there were quite a lot of things with which he'd like to occupy himself just then, most of them involving Sherlock and various forms of mental anguish. John put a hand on his arm.

"We'll manage. Sherlock, it's lunchtime. Have you even eaten since we've been here?"

"Ah," said Sherlock. "Yes. Actually, I'm going to the VIP luncheon."

"VIP? You?"

"It would appear so." And with a slight smile, the detective was gone.

"What I don't understand," Lestrade grumbled at his retreating back, "is how come _he's_ the one who gets the catered meal. He doesn't even bloody _eat_."

The afternoon brought them a talk on scepticism that actually got John to pose a question ("I'm a physician, and I could use some effective arguments to convince my patients that they're taking a lot of nonsense. It interferes with their actual treatments sometimes,") as well as the space exploration panel that had been suggested to them (Lestrade spent a good portion of it whispering explanations to John), and then it was dinnertime and they were more than ready to go back to their rooms.

"Oh – we _can't_. Sherlock and his blasted case."

"… bugger. Well, then what?"

"We could go to the dinner."

"Yeah, but that's three hours long. I'm not even hungry."

"Turning into Sherlock."

"Shut up."

"We could go out and do something, if it weren't so bloody hot out."

"What about the pool? We may as well."

"Did you bring swimming shorts? I didn't."

"Actually, I did, but they're in the rooms. Come on, we'll buy some. It's Mycroft's money, after all."

"Yeah, all right. Let Sherlock explain _that_ one to him."

Lestrade grabbed the first pair he saw in his size, dark navy blue, but John had the credit card, so he had to hunt around the shop until he found him. When he did, John was rifling through a rack of dreadful, gaudy swimwear, a faint grin on his face.

"What on Earth are you doing?"

"Well, it's like you said – this goes on Mycroft's expense account."

"And?"

"I'm looking for the most ridiculous product code I can find."

Lestrade snickered, then went to the other end of the rack. "Pink flamingoes?" he asked, holding up a garish pair covered with birds and coconut trees.

"Pink _elephants_?" John countered, waving them at Lestrade.

"Fruit with faces?"

"_Manatees?_"

Eventually, they settled on a pair festooned with hedgehogs and bright flowers, and John, in a fit of amusement, took away Lestrade's navy trunks in favour of ones with stars and planets dotted all across them. Lestrade sighed, but acceded.

Neither one of them was overly thrilled with their decision when they arrived at the pool and realized they had to actually wear the shorts in public. "Quick," John said, "get underwater where they might not be noticed."

"This was _your_ brilliant plan."

"Technically, it's _Sherlock's_ fault. We could be up in our rooms right now watching the women's World Cup highlights."

"Yeah, instead of palm trees and a poolside bar. You're right, he's awful."

"Well, he _is_. It just happens to have turned out less disastrously than usual this time."

"Right. Drink?"

"Please."

John squinted at the bar. "Er… you know how this is all on Mycroft's credit card?"

"Mmm?"

"They've got Macallan 25-Year."

"_Jesus._ We _couldn't_."

"Watch me."

* * *

They were relaxed enough to have forgotten the trunks, sitting slightly giggly beside one another in the hot tub with Mycroft's six-hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey between them, only halfway through their first drinks. They were commiserating about football, John being a West Ham fan and Lestrade favouring the Blades, which meant that they each had an entire season of spectacular losses and a relegation about which to complain.

"If they'd just win _one_ game, you know…"

"… lost to _Wigan_…"

"… going to have to play _Sheffield Wednesday_…"

They looked at one another and Lestrade couldn't help laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Look at us," he said. "City full of neon, casinos and performances and live bands and… scantily-clad women everywhere, and here we sit, hashing out months-old football scores. We're…"

"We're _British_," said John.

"Painfully so."

"And scantily-clad women have never really been my thing."

"No," the inspector agreed. "Nor mine."

No laughing this time when they looked at one another.

Before either of them could say any more, though, they were joined in the hot tub by a cohort of people who looked vaguely familiar. Lestrade's astronomer friend was among them, as well as several people John was sure they'd met at one or the other of the evening get-togethers.

"Hey! Not going to the party tonight?"

"There's a party?" John asked.

"Yeah. You know, music and stuff. Doughnuts. Bacon."

"Bit random, isn't it?" Lestrade had to ask. "Doughnuts and bacon?"

The tall fellow who'd spoken shrugged. "You don't see us there, do you?"

In answer, John hoisted himself up onto the edge of the hot tub and made his way over to the bar, returning with a generous stack of glasses and sharing out Mycroft's bottle between them all. It earned them both thumbs-ups and appreciative claps on the back, and the conversation changed to the anticipation of the Saturday talks. There seemed to be quite a number of them. John instantly perked up at the mention of a roundtable on placebos and struck up a conversation with a woman who was to be on the panel; the astronomer Lestrade had befriended that morning was quietly recommending one of the afternoon speakers, accompanying his summary of an earlier talk with enthusiastic hand gestures.

It was actually turning out to be a reasonably pleasant evening, which was, of course, why Sherlock decided to drop in on it halfway through, sporting a large, purple bruise down one side of his face and a nasty-looking cut across his chin.

"Your, ah… your rooms are available earlier than anticipated," he informed them.

"Want to tell us what happened?" Lestrade asked, as the others in the hot tub grew quiet.

"Nothing of consequence," he waved away the inspector's concerns and his flatmate's worried frown. Catching sight of the glasses in their hands, he wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Really, again?"

"You want one?" Lestrade offered.

"Hardly."

"Might want to think twice about that, Sherlock," John grinned. "Mycroft's paying six hundred dollars for this."

"Oh, _well_, then," said the detective, "by all means."

He even waited until Lestrade had finished pouring the glass before taking it in one hand and sweeping off to parts unknown.

"What was _that_ all about?" one of their new American friends asked.

"That… was Sherlock," John said, not really sure how to explain.

Lestrade came to the rescue. "Astronomy's not really his area."

John cracked up.

* * *

Saturday dawned brighter and hotter than any of the previous days, and the sunlight filtering in through the room's curtains woke Lestrade.

He glanced over at John in the other bed. "Hey," he said.

"Go away."

"It's morning."

"No, 's not."

"Get out of bed! We're going to miss breakfast."

From under the covers, vaguely, "… tell you where you can… breakfast…"

Lestrade reached out, grabbed yesterday's jeans from the floor, and shied them at John's head, or at least his best guess as to where that might be.

The top of the head emerged over the edge of the blankets, sleepy glare of death directed at Lestrade. "Thought I was in your room to get some _sleep_."

"You've had some."

"How can you possibly be a _worse_ roommate than Sherlock?"

Lestrade flipped him a two-fingered salute, then slid out from under the covers. "First shower's mine, then."

"Fine. Piss off."

He grinned. "Hope you like the Rolling Stones."

Sherlock found them at breakfast, John still half-asleep and glowering over his untouched coffee, Lestrade chipper with only a glass of orange juice and a croissant.

"Good morning."

"Morning, Sherlock," said Lestrade and John muttered darkly about mornings' not starting at seven-thirty on holiday.

"Rough start?" Sherlock enquired, knowing perfectly well.

John pointed at Lestrade. "Bastard _sings_ in the shower."

* * *

Sherlock was actually at the first panel discussion that morning, glancing around the room and very obviously sharing his attention between a number of targets, only one of which was the actual talk. He watched with some interest when the proceedings began, though, and his gaze wandered less and less.

In the end, John and Lestrade received quite an impressive education, because as the participants described a series of experiments they had conducted to disprove paranormal events, Sherlock disassembled each one under his breath, identified the points at which a con artist might take advantage of the procedure, and, in some cases, came up with methods for making the tricks even less transparent to investigation. He even spoke during the question period, concise, intelligent enquiries that made the presenters pause and think before responding.

John whispered, "I've never seen him on such good behaviour before."

"Must be nice for him," Lestrade responded, "to be surrounded by people who understand his methods and agree with them."

The doctor nodded slowly. He hadn't thought about it that way before. They might not all be quite on his level – or share his rather morbid fascinations – but, in essence, this was a meeting full of Sherlocks. Everyone here made a lifestyle out of observing, questioning, deducing.

It wasn't just a meeting full of Sherlocks – it was a _celebration_ of Sherlocks.

He smiled.

At the coffee break, Sherlock came up to them. "I need you."

"All right. For what?" After all, this was why he had brought them.

"Backup. Just one of you. With a gun."

"Sherlock, how did you get a _gun_ in here?"

"Keep your voice down. I arranged for one, obviously. This is America; it's not difficult."

"I'll go," said Lestrade. "You stay – your panel's next."

"Are you sure?" John asked him. "It's just a talk, if Sherlock needs – "

"Just one will do," Sherlock cut in and, grabbing Lestrade's wrist, led him out of the room.

Lestrade didn't know what he was expecting; Sherlock hadn't exactly kept them up-to-date on the progress of his investigations over the past few days. So he simply went along obediently when Sherlock slapped a gun into his hands ("You do know how to use it?" "Sherlock, I _was_ AFO trained. You were there." "Not what I asked,") and dragged him off to a gallery overlooking a massive arena.

"Are _all_ hotels in Las Vegas like this?" was all he asked, leaning out over the catwalk to get a look at what was going on below – mostly people lugging about heavy pieces of equipment, with dark-suited individuals standing scattered about and conversing intently.

"I haven't had cause to find out," Sherlock replied. "Cover me from up here. I'm going to talk to him," and he gestured to one of the suits.

"You sure this has the range?"

Sherlock just looked at him.

The plan went swimmingly, by Sherlock's standards. Of course, Sherlock's standards incorporated a fistfight between Lestrade and someone's hired thug, an errant gunshot (not Lestrade's; he'd been right, the pistol _didn't_ have the range) that took out an entire panel of stadium lights, a fall from the catwalk (this time it _was_ Lestrade, but he landed on top of the heavy he'd been wrestling into submission, so the gash in his forehead was a relatively minor price to pay) and, naturally, at the end, Sherlock standing on a seat in the bleachers, loudly proclaiming his superiority and decrying the idiocy of the criminals he'd been sent to catch.

From his somewhat painful position on the floor, Lestrade was having some serious doubts about that superiority.

They walked (well, Lestrade limped) back to the convention rooms just in time for the end of the questions, and heard John chatting animatedly before he came into sight, something about new methods in reconstructive surgery. Though it hurt his head, Lestrade couldn't help but smile.

On the other hand, the smile on John's face vanished when he saw them and he excused himself quickly from the conversation.

"What _happened_ to you?" A perfunctory look at Sherlock told the doctor he was fine, and John turned his attention on Lestrade, who was somewhat less so.

"I, ah, fell. A bit."

"You _fell_?"

"Well, I was rather high up, and… some idiot was punching me…"

"You're bleeding. Did you know?" John pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the side of Lestrade's forehead. It came away stained, and Lestrade put it back, clapping a hand over it to hold it in place.

"Sorry."

"Sherlock," said John, very calmly. "What were you doing?"

"We were ensuring that we didn't lose any of our suspects before they could be… appropriately dealt with."

"And have they been 'appropriately dealt with?'"

"Yes."

"Good. Then," without ever breaking his bland expression, "would you please get out of my sight, and don't come back until you can explain to me what the _bloody_ hell you were thinking."

Lestrade held up a placating hand, though Sherlock was already retreating rapidly. "He didn't actually do anything wrong, you know," he told John. "He brought a trained firearms officer to apprehend a dangerous suspect."

John sighed. "I suppose," he said. "But he's gone and gotten you – oh, come up to the room. Let me have a look at that cut."

* * *

It didn't look too bad once John had finished cleaning it up. "I don't think you've done any real damage," he said as he applied a couple of butterfly closures to the wound. "Headache?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Hmm. Balance all right? Hearing? Mental state, other than standing up for Sherlock?"

"Far as I know."

"Look up here."

Lestrade did, blinking back from the desk lamp John was repurposing as an examination light. John caught his face with one hand and held it steady. "Close your right eye… all right… your left… no, you can open the right one again, you div."

A grin played across Lestrade's face as he cracked one eye open again and squinted at the doctor.

Days' worth of resolve shattered in John and he used the hand already on Lestrade's face to tilt his chin up and brush their lips together.

Silence. John pulled away as his brain caught up with him (oh, buggering _hell_), but he couldn't meet his friend's eyes until he heard a warm chuckle.

He looked up quizzically, not daring to ask.

"I was wondering," Lestrade said, "how long that was going to take."

"I'm – " John swallowed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have – you're hurt, and – "

Lestrade cut him off with another kiss, cupping a hand around the back of John's neck and pulling him in close again. All in all, it rendered John's stammered apology rather unnecessary.

* * *

They didn't see Sherlock again until dinnertime, when he came up to the room looking for them.

"You missed the afternoon talks," he observed.

"Yeah, I suppose we did."

"Shame. There was quite a fascinating one on science education for the masses. How to take scientific concepts and make them accessible to the layman."

"Ah," said John. "So you'll be able to explain your brilliant deductions to us all."

Sherlock shifted his gaze. "Are you… still angry with me?"

"A bit," John admitted, "but I suppose it wasn't technically your fault. Since when do you care, anyway?"

The detective drew himself up as tall as he could, the effect of which was somewhat spoilt by the fact that Lestrade and John were sprawled out on the floor and couldn't really see. They both heard the change in his voice, though, from what might almost have been genuine concern to sudden, deliberate aloofness. "I need you both functioning optimally in case there are… loose ends to clear up."

"Loose ends."

"With the case."

They shared a glance. It wasn't Sherlock's greatest cover.

"Yeah, all right, whatever," said John. "It's time for dinner, Sherlock, and you're coming."

He opened his mouth to protest, looking back and forth between his two companions, but John and Lestrade presented a united front and there was no one to back him up.

He sighed. "Oh, all right."

They returned late, detained first by a chance encounter with some of the friends they'd made on the first night and then by an extraordinary two-hour theatre performance that even Sherlock found ways to appreciate, mostly when the topic turned to advanced mathematics.

Sherlock was proven human for once when, several times in a row, his key card failed to gain him admission to his room. John stepped in, providing his own, and was able to get the door open after only one or two tries.

As shocked as John and Lestrade had been on the first night, they were even more so now. Sherlock had somehow, in the time between his morning endangerment of his colleagues and his evening return, managed to make everything he'd had strewn about the room disappear, leaving only a change of clothing hanging over the back of a chair for the morning.

John stared from the corridor. "Wh – where… Sherlock, what is going on?"

The detective smiled enigmatically.

As Lestrade moved toward his own door, John hesitated. His pretext for sleeping in the other room was gone now, and even though they'd – well, it had only been – they'd only just –

"Oh, don't be stupid," said Lestrade, caught hold of John's arm with one hand, and pulled him into the room, leaving Sherlock alone and bemused in his own doorway.

* * *

They'd arranged for a wake-up call on Sunday, so that they could be up early enough to pack their things and check out before the day's activities. Lestrade let it ring for a bit, hoping John would answer, then gave up, flung out a hand, and knocked the handset off its cradle.

"Thank God," murmured a voice from somewhere deep in the blanket.

"You still have to get up." But he rather failed to suit his actions to the words, tightening his arms around John instead of letting him go and getting on with their morning.

John burrowed deeper into the covers. "What is it with you and getting up? Every single morning…" He pulled in close, and Lestrade began to wonder what it was he thought was so great about waking up anyway.

The door banged loudly open, and Sherlock stood in the entrance to the room, dishevelled hair contrasting wildly with neatly-pressed suit and elegant shirt.

"John, I need…" He trailed off as he realized that the bed where John slept was empty, and that his flatmate was nowhere to be seen.

A chaotic thatch of blond bedhead poked up over the edge of Lestrade's sheets. "You need _what_?"

Sherlock just stared, train of thought clearly derailed by what he was seeing.

With a sigh, John crawled out from under the covers to wave a hand in front of the detective's face. "Sherlock… you still in there?"

Lestrade grinned. This wasn't half bad as morning entertainment went.

Sherlock came back to his senses, blinking and shaking his head. "I… need your help. At the front desk."

"All right, fine. Go back to your room, I'll be there in a minute."

When Sherlock was gone, Lestrade huffed a sigh of mock indignation. "You'll get out of bed for him, but not for me?"

John shrugged. "I'll get _into_ bed for you and not for him."

"Oh, God. Don't talk, all right? Just don't talk. Where are my trousers?"

* * *

"What time's our flight?" John wanted to know after breakfast, as they waited for the ten o'clock lecture to begin. Sherlock had gone to see the paper presentations; science writing was a bit of a hobby of his (the tables at home were littered with monographs he'd produced on the most obscure of forensic subjects) and he was curious as to what uncommon knowledge others might present.

Lestrade shuffled the folded bundle of papers he'd been carrying about ever since their arrival. "Half six," he said.

"So we'll need to leave at about…"

"… three-thirty; there's a shuttle. We'll have to miss the last talks, and there'll be a bit of a wait at the airport, I'm afraid."

"Excellent. Can't think of anything I'd rather be doing with my evening." He rolled his eyes.

"Come on, as far as Sherlock's cases go, this hasn't exactly been a nightmare, has it?"

"Says the man with the broken face."

"Well, other than that."

"No," said John softly. "No, it really hasn't."

"I should hope not." And because neither of them was a particularly demonstrative man, especially in public, his hand on John's said all they really needed to say.

The day passed quickly, in a flurry of brilliance and biting rhetoric and Sherlock's rather worrisome smile as he got… _ideas_… from the morning talk on experimental psychology. The arrival of half-past-three was somewhat startling for all of them; they barely had time to reclaim their bags from the front desk (Sherlock, somehow, had nothing to carry again) before the shuttle was at the hotel entrance. Fortunately, for once, the airport journey was uneventful and, other than a few choice words as he and John insisted Sherlock eat before they boarded, they ended up on the plane with a minimum of fuss.

Sherlock got straight to work behind them, opening his laptop and beginning to type up his case notes. The sound of the keyboard made John smile – he'd probably look up the details later and write the meeting up as one of the 'dramatic adventures' Sherlock despised so much on his blog. Or maybe, he thought, looking over at the detective inspector, he wouldn't. Maybe he'd keep this week just for them.

He flipped up the armrest between the two seats and settled against Lestrade, tired and ready to go home. An arm wrapped gently around him – hesitant, as if John might push it away, but he just rested his head on Lestrade's shoulder and closed his eyes.

Amazing meeting, indeed.


End file.
